lectionprayer

Two or Three or Seven or Seventy-Seven

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

It sounds so… easy… Jesus.
Like when those friends of mine
cajoled their mother into asking you –
the gall! –
to ask you if her sons could sit
at either side of you upon your throne.

Oh, yeah. Like that was gonna happen.
I knew full well that your ideas
were not in line with theirs –
the gall! –
but also, well, they weren’t in line with mine
but trust me, you’ll see my way, won’t you now?

Such simple steps. First me, then me and Andrew, say,
or me and Matthew or Iscariot
to talk to James and John (and mom) –
the gall! –
and get them straightened out. And if that
doesn’t work, we’ll get the group. And you.

But really, just how many times
will I be forced to make this run-around?
How many times will James and John (and mom) –
the gall! –
be able to repeat this sorry circle
and distract us from your better work?

Once ought to be enough. Or twice.
They’re smarter than they ought to be, you know,
these Sons of Thunder and their mom –
the gall! –
but I’d be willing now to go as high as seven
and then they can be tax collectors to us all.

What’s that you said?
Like… Matthew?
Oh.
The gall.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 18:15-20 (with references to Matthew 20:20-28 and 18:21), the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 18 (23).

The image is Le Christ rencontrant la femme et les fils de Zébédée by Paolo Veronese – photo by Tylwyth Eldar, 2018-08-04 11:05:41, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=71396860.

And After That

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

And [Joseph] kissed all his brothers and wept upon them; and after that his brothers talked with him. – Genesis 45:15

Where does that conversation start?
“You sold me into Egypt.”
“Well, yes, we did. We, um, thought…”
“Well, we didn’t think…”
“Mostly, Joe, we felt…”
“Yeah, we felt, and mostly what we felt…”
“…Was angry.”
“Yeah.”
“Angry.”

I get angry, God. Oh, yes.
Despite the best advice, I’m ready now
to test You. Yes, and such a test.
For if our weary state is not
so great a hardship as the state of slavery,
or worse, imprisoned and yet guiltless,
or worse, awaiting a deliverance
that should not be delayed, yet is…

Our weary state is bad enough
that I can set it side-by-side
with seven years of famine and
with seven years of harvests
left to rot amidst the fields.
We ignored the Josephs who would tell us to
prepare for harsher times…

Well.
Suffice it to admit my heart is aching
and my blood is pounding and
I do not weep for resolution but
I weep in deep frustration and
I am not ready to embrace
my not-so-sorry siblings.

I hesitate as well to reach for You, O God.

So.

May I swiftly come into that place “and after that”
enjoyed by Joseph, Reuben, Judah, and the rest.
Restore to us the unity of family.
And… as I come to You, may my tears drench Your neck
and may Your tears run down beyond the collar
of my robes, as sweet upon the ground
as is the dew of Hermon.

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 45:1-15 and Psalm 133, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading and Alternate Psalm for Year A, Proper 15 (20).

The image is Joseph Recognized by His Brothers by Léon Pierre Urbain Bourgeois (1863) – http://www.culture.gouv.fr/Wave/image/joconde/0419/m015586_0004599_p.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8740999.

Midnight Wrestling

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

Hoarsely breathing.
Sweat’s aroma growing.
Taste of dust across the teeth.
A shapeless silhouette against the stars.
Muscles aching, skin abrading, jaw clenched tight,
we wrestle to the dawn.

In ignorance I strain.
In ignorance I fumble for a hold.
In ignorance I push or pull or pivot.
In ignorance I gasp for breath, inhale, exhale,
and beg for blessing, beg for name.

Is this you, God?
Do you produce this ache
by dislocation of my frame?
Is this the silent panting struggle with Creation?
Is this you, God?

No name.
Just a name for me,
a name for a devoted wrestler, but
I weary of the struggle, weary of the pain,
weary of the ignorance.

If you must put
your arms about me once again,
might it be a parent’s warm embrace
and not to separate my fragile, aching bones.
Oh, bless me as I am.

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 32:22-31, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Proper 13 (18).

Drawing of Jacob wrestling with the angel by Alexander Andreyevich Ivanov – http://religionart.narod.ru/gal9/photo45.htm, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9087629.

Poor Farmer

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

I don’t think much of your agricultural practice, Jesus.
“The kingdom of heaven may be compared to…”
a farmer who leaves the weeds amidst the wheat,
and only separates the two at harvest.

Well, let me tell you, Jesus, that the weeds
are not just growing peacefully beside
the wheat. They steal the water, hide the sun,
choke the grain. The wheat begs your relief!

“O that you would kill the wicked, O God,
and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me!”
“Do I not hate those who hate you, O LORD?
And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?”

I need a farmer who will bring me aid and comfort
from the spreading weeds of greed and folly
ravishing the struggling grain of your own planting,
LORD. “I hate them with perfect hatred,” indeed.

Unless…

Unless, of course, I let the Psalmist’s prayer
take root within my heart and blossom there:
“See if there is any wicked way in me;”
test me to see if I grow like the weeds.

Ah, now I am less eager for your justice
or your retribution or your weeding. Now
I am content to grow in peace however fragile,
to become, I pray, your wheat and not your weed.

“See if there is any wicked way in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting.”

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43 and Psalm 139, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading and Psalm for Year A, Proper 11 (16).

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Where is the Laughter?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

Now Sarah said, “God has brought laughter for me…” – Genesis 21:6

Where is the laughter, O God?
Where is the delight in your created multiverse?
Where is the wonder that bubbles up
in human beings rejoicing?

But who can laugh in days like these?
Who can laugh? Four hundred thousand people
now have died around the world?
One hundred thousand of our closer neighbors?

Yes, who can laugh in days like these,
when the essential work and heightened risk
and sickening and dying falls upon
the people burdened by the sin of racism?

Yes, who can laugh when clubs and shields
and “rubber bullets” strike, when tear gas
drives the ministers from holy ground,
when violence asserts the mantle of Christ’s Church.

Yes, who can laugh, for who can breathe?
Who can laugh, for who can see for tears?
Who can laugh, for who do so through a mask?
Who can laugh, for who can see their neighbor smile?

The LORD said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh?…
Is anything too wonderful for the LORD?”

O LORD, let justice roll down like waters,
and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream,
and we
will
laugh.

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 18:1-15, 21:1-7, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Proper 6 (11).

A stained glass window in the Collegiale Notre Dame de Dinant in Walloon, Belgium. Photo by Vassil – Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17808949.

Help of the Helpless

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

Father of orphans and protector of widows is God in his holy habitation.
God gives the desolate a home to live in; he leads out the prisoners to prosperity, but the rebellious live in a parched land. – Psalm 68:5-6

I am grateful, O God, to know
the people for whom You labor,
the people for whom You care.

You care for the homeless.
You care for the resource-less.
You care for the refugee.

I am grateful, O God, to know
the people for whom You care.
Do You wonder why people do not?

A poem/prayer based on Psalm 68:1-10, 32-35, the Revised Common Lectionary Psalm Reading for Year A, seventh Sunday of Easter.

The image is a portrait of Tomomichi Yuuki, “Mizuhan portrait”, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=64228756.

Orphaned

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

[Jesus said,] “I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you.” – John 14:18

Technically, I have been an orphan now
for twenty months and three. My mother died
as I was starting to believe that I
was an adult – perhaps, of course, before
I had achieved that title – in the waning months
before my second decade reached its close.
It seems so odd to be now older than she ever was.

My father lived much longer, though afflicted so
in latter years by Parkinson’s Disease, he could
not make the trip to visit me, his eldest son,
in the Hawaiian Islands. The flowers of this place
adorned his passing when I wish they could
have welcomed him as honored guest.
But he greeted eighty years with such a smile.

So I have been left orphaned well into
my middle age, a kinder fate than many folk
endure. If none of us were perfect in our love,
we had at least the grace to learn and grow,
to love anew when older means to love had passed.
So Jesus, if you would, come visit me, I pray,
for I am orphaned, and I weep for your embrace.

A poem/prayer based on John 14:15-21, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, sixth Sunday of Easter.

The photo is of my father and my mother on their wedding day in 1962; photographer unknown.

This poem/prayer fails to honor the woman my father married in 1995; they met while both pursuing M.Div. degrees at Andover Newton Theological School. She has been the mother-to-an-adult my own mother could not be. My son said it best. His grandfather had had the privilege to marry the love of his life twice.

All I Ask

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

[Jesus said,] “If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it.” – John 14:14

I’m asking.

I’m asking for deliverance from a virus.
I’m asking for deliverance from all-encompassing folly.
I’m asking for deliverance from the demands of greed.
I’m asking for deliverance from injustice.

I’m asking.

I’m asking for deliverance from my loneliness.
I’m asking for deliverance from my narcissism.
I’m asking for deliverance from my burdens.
I’m asking for deliverance from my sin.

I’m asking.

I’m asking for deliverance from my grief.
I’m asking for deliverance of the world’s grief.
I’m asking for deliverance of the world’s violence.
I’m asking for deliverance from… it all.

I’m asking.

What say you, Jesus?
Shall we wait at this table until it comes to pass?
Here, at least, we have the bread to sustain us…
Except that it has not been broken yet in you.

A poem/prayer based on John 14:1-14, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, fifth Sunday of Easter.

The image is The Last Supper by Jacopo Tintoretto – Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15542032.

Reassure Me

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

It’s dark.

This is a valley of shadows.

This is a valley of death.

My grief and not my cup runs over.

Too many earthly shepherds flail
with rod and staff;
they maim and kill their flock,
and leave the predators untouched.

My enemies enjoy the feast
that I will never taste.

This is place from which I cry,
“De profudis clamavi ad te!”
“Mimma’amaqqim qeratika!”
“Mai loko o na wahi hohonu,
ua kahea aku au ia ‘oe!”
“Out of the depths I cry to you!”

Reassure me with your implements
of protection, Holy Shepherd,
for the night is long. I am afraid.
I turn my prayers to you.

A poem/prayer based on Psalm 23, the Revised Common Lectionary Psalm Reading for Year A, fourth Sunday of Easter, Good Shepherd Sunday.

Image of The Good Shepherd by Luca Giordano – http://www.gallery.am/hy/database/item/6772/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20019538.

Untasted

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

The truth is that I’m pretty hungry now.
This walk from city to Emmaus has
been tiring, more than any walk I can
remember, since my heart is wrapped in grief
and fear because, you know, you’re dead and gone
and I refused to take much comfort from
the words the women shared (is it because
they’re women, now, I ask “enlightened” me?).

So I am famished when I sit to eat
with you (the you I do not recognize)
and my companion (oops, whose name I have
forgotten to report to history).
Can we get to it now? Just break the bread
and share it round, replenish my depleted
stores of stamina and strength of mind.
I’ll wait. You break. Then we can eat in peace.

Now hours and miles later, gasping with
the sweet exhaustion of a joy-filled run,
I find that you have traveled swifter yet
than I, to share the miracle of your
renewed and resurrected life. I share
the wonder that “The Lord has risen indeed;”
because I left the bread untasted on
the table when the Lord appeared to me.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 24:13-35, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, third Sunday of Easter.

Image by RvdWeyer – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27519876.